


I Dreamt It For You

by daisylore



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Backstory, Cohabitation, Eames helps Arthur when he needs him, Eames is besotted, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Original Character Death(s), dreamshare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-19 14:26:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7365112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisylore/pseuds/daisylore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a standard extraction job, but long, and none of the team had felt the comfort of their own beds for months. And now, nearing up on the day of the heist, they could sense that the end was finally in sight, and there was a bit of excitement in the air. Then Arthur’s phone – his <em>personal</em> phone – rang. </p><p>Arthur goes home, alone, to deal with the aftermath of the death of a close relative, confidant, friend. Eames, who can’t bear to see Arthur hurting, follows him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The harmless, tinny jingle sent a shiver down Arthur’s spine. He paused for a moment, stopped cold, before rummaging through his bottom desk drawer for his personal phone. It was a wonder that the battery hadn’t died since he’d thrown it in there at the start of the job, but that was the beauty of old brick phones. They could be charged at the beginning of what had seemed like a bulk standard extraction, but still last for months later, when the job had proved tricky to plan and even trickier to execute. None of the team had felt the comfort of their own bed for ages, as the mark had eluded them time and time again. But now it looked like he was standing still, at last – “Siberia in the winter, of all places; add masochistic tendencies to his list of attributes,” Eames had quipped grumpily – and, two days before the heist, excitement rang in the air. Arthur had been itching with anticipation all afternoon, though he had tried to quell it, fearing it would dull his focus. It was going pretty well, too, until –

“Are you going to answer that?”

Arthur looked up to find their extractor, Ursula, staring at him. Her dark brown eyes flickered down to the buzzing cellphone in his hand and then back up to stare at him quizzically.

“Yeah, excuse me,” Arthur replied as he headed for the warehouse’s supply room. His stomach knotted with concern as he locked the door behind him. Not many people had his personal number, and they tended to use it sparingly, in rare serious situations, knowing that Arthur didn’t like to be bothered at work. Email was always fine because he could answer it in his own time, but the shrill ring of a phone demanded a prompt response, so it had better be urgent.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Arthur,” his sister said. “No reason to prolong this with small talk – Aunt Talia passed away yesterday.”

Arthur felt his stomach drop. He nodded and made vague murmurs of comprehension as she filled him in – how she had died, funeral details, and the odd comforting platitude – until the call ended. The news washed over him as he stood in silence, alone in the room. His face felt hot as tears welled up in his eyes. Apparently his physiological reactions were quicker to accept the finality of situation than was his shocked conscious mind, he reflected. He placed his face in his hands, leant against the door, and let out the initial anguish.

Later, his breathing finally calm, he returned to his desk in the main warehouse. _Walk quickly, with purpose, and don’t make eye contact with anyone._ Panic rose up as he sat down and began to touch the objects peppered on the cold metal surface. The weight of his notebook felt unrecognizable in his hand; the bright burn of the lamp was far too harsh a white-blue; everything had suddenly changed.

_Fuck._

Arthur swallowed, hard. Shut off the lamp. Took a few deep breaths. Focused his eyes on a crack on the floor and tried to clear his head. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, until he could sense absolutely nothing on his mind, all clear. He would be okay if he just didn’t think about it.

And then he suddenly swiveled back to his computer, entered his passwords, and looked immediately for a flight back to Baltimore. It was hopeless, really. The funeral, in Jewish tradition, was to be held almost immediately, which meant tomorrow, enough time for everyone who knew her who wasn’t currently in _fucking Siberia_ to converge on her home. But he’d be remiss if he didn’t try. Not to mention that he couldn’t pull out of this job so late in the game, but he liked to think that he would have. It mattered. But the option wasn’t even there. He was staying put.

He let out a slow exhale and put his head down on his desk, resting it on his forearms.

_You can do this, just for two more days; be professional. You’ve always taken pride in your ability to work, so just focus and push through and finish the job. Pull it together. You can deal with this later. Only two more days, just two more, so shake yourself off and just don’t think about it until then. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it._

Arthur took another breath, raised his head, and glanced down at his blotter. His most recent note, written in heavy black ink, simply said “lookout.” He turned around to face the rest of the team, and addressed their architect and chemist.

“Nicholls, Riley – have you decided which of you will remain topside?”

“I really don’t see why we can’t pay someone else to do it,” Riley said, leaning against the back of her chair to face him.

“After all of this work, you want to put our safety, and the integrity of the extraction, into the hands of a stranger? If we can buy them, our mark’s people can surely buy them, too. We could find ourselves back at square one.” Honestly, he felt as if he worked with amateurs, sometimes. “Let’s just do this right the first time. Unless we’d like to experience the great Russian winter that even Napoleon could not vanquish first-hand?” Riley rolled her eyes, but immediately stopped and looked away upon seeing Arthur’s glare.

“I think what Arthur is trying to say, in his rather fetchingly intimidating way, is that we’d rather not risk what may be the best shot we ever get at completing this behemoth of a job,” Eames added. Arthur caught a glimpse of Eames’s smile before turning away.

“Decide. Tell me tomorrow morning.” Arthur stared back down at his desk. His thoughts came slowly. _Stay focused, always keep busy. What was next?_

 

++

 

Eames had taken to pacing around the perimeter of the warehouse a few weeks ago. It was partially just to keep his blood flowing, but it also to give him something to do – something that made him seem as if he were at least thinking productively, so Ursula would get off of his back. Either way, it allowed him to daydream more professionally than when he slipped off into his own thoughts while lounging in one of the recliners. He had perfected his forge during the early stages of the job, and while changes of plans topside affected point men and the like, his work was static. He practiced twice a day to make sure he could still slip on the skin of the mark’s brother, but that didn’t constitute much of a nine-to-five, given that even an hour of practice in the dream barely advanced his watch forward fifteen minutes. He had an awful lot of time to spend in his own head, and, of course, to spend riling up his favorite coworkers. Coworker, singular, really. Why lie to himself?

Really, said riling hadn’t been going as poorly as he would have imagined. He and Arthur hadn’t always gotten on terribly well, but it seemed as if time – both in the long term, since they had first had the shock of butting antlers professionally, and just in the course of warming up to each other during this damn job – had softened both of their edges. There was always bound to be a competitive spirit between the two of them. Two people that opinionated and with such different methodologies – or such unique schools of thought, Eames mused – would always clash in a field as untried and untested as dreamshare, but lately their tension had found a more sportive element. Arthur’s mocking had lost its biting edge, and while he was still critical, he occasionally took a moment to appreciate a good idea.

Anyway, Eames found himself pushing Arthur’s buttons a bit more affectionately than he had anticipated, and, somehow, Arthur wasn’t always averse to a bit of teasing. Sometimes, he even played along. Eames couldn’t even believe it the first time it had happened. He had poked a bit of fun when Arthur had chastised their architect for his illegible notes, and Arthur had just slipped into the role, all of a sudden pretending to be a stern commanding officer whose mission was to produce soldiers with perfect penmanship. They’d traipsed around the warehouse, nitpicking at each team member’s handwriting while playing good cop, bad cop between them, until they’d reached Eames’s station. Arthur took a discerning look at Eames’s joined-up scrawl – Eames would be lying if he didn’t admit that Arthur’s initial look of horror was genuine – before he replaced the papers onto Eames’s desk, put his hand on Eames’s shoulder, and looked him squarely in the eye.

“Eames, I’m not angry. I’m just disappointed.”

Eames had broken first, and they’d both laughed deeply for a few moments. Eames had been left smiling when Arthur nodded at him before returning to his desk, heading back at work.

That night, with his arms curled around a pillow, he’d fallen asleep just replaying the conversation over and over again in his head, marveling over the oh-so-meaningful details (after all, Arthur was all about the details, right?) and trying to commit every word of it to memory.

Eames loved it. Even if it didn’t materialize into something more, the beginning of a friendship had its own merits. He craved the idea that he and Arthur would share something special, that maybe one day they’d both look at each other and laugh or smile or wink because conversation had recalled an inside joke or shared memory. But Eames knew he was getting ahead of himself. While Arthur had moments in which he let go, he was still _Arthur_ , after all. He was fairly straight-laced, and not prone to acting like a schoolgirl giggling in the corner with her friends. It wasn’t a bad thing – Eames admired his laser-sharp focus and determination – but it sometimes made his fantasies about their closeness, at least in public, a bit unrealistic. But he hoped that, maybe someday, at least outside the confines of work, they could have something more than a businesslike connection. _God, a few friendly conversations, and you’re completely smitten_ , he thought.

For now, though, he’d resolved to continue with his banter, no matter what the outcome. And if he flirted a little, perhaps something would come of it, or, at the very least, he’d be met with the odd dimpled grin before Arthur shook his head a little and returned to work. It was a vast improvement over his famed death glare, of which he’d been on the receiving end the very first time he had hit on Arthur, on the first job they’d ever worked together. Eames shuddered with a peculiar (although not unwelcome) mix of fear and fondness at the thought of it.

And it had been going well, until that afternoon. They had done a test run of the job right after lunch, and, upon waking, Ursula had reviewed each aspect. Arthur hadn’t faltered in any of his duties – ever professional was their point man, after all – but his temper belied his performance. He was snappy and short with everyone in a way that Eames thought was curious until Arthur turned on him, curtly questioning him on why it took so long for him to assume his forge.

“I’m sorry,” he fumbled, caught a bit off guard. “It took me a while to find the mirror you put in, Nicholls, and I can never get forges quite right without them.”

Arthur’s tone was cold. “Well, see that it doesn’t happen during the real thing.”

“But that’s why we do test runs, isn’t it? Now I know exactly where it is. Nothing to be concerned about anymore.”

“Forgive me if I’m not so confident and cavalier, Mr. Eames.”

Eames had relented at that point, sensing that they had to get on with business. Arthur continued his terse, biting commentary for the rest of the afternoon, and the next day it only worsened. Perhaps it was just that the pressure had gotten to him.

The night before the job, as he was leaving the warehouse, he walked up to Arthur, who was still hard at work at his desk. Eames rested a hand softly on his shoulder, hoping it wouldn’t exacerbate his testy mood.

“You okay?”

Arthur looked up at him, then. His eyes looked heavy and dark with wear. Arthur was going to work himself to death at this rate, honestly.

“There’s no need to be nervous about this one; Ursula’s a perfectly competent extractor and I’ve seen you pull off far more complicated heists left completely to your own devices. Don’t stress out too much, darling; it will all be better tomorrow.”

Arthur took a deep breath, blinked, and then looked Eames in the eye again, his gaze suddenly sharp and impatient. “Eames,” he said, his voice deep and steady, and Eames waited for him to continue, before realizing Arthur had punctuated his statement to a close. It almost seemed like he meant it as a warning.

Eames removed his hand and took a step back. “Right. I’ll be off, then – _à demain, mon cher_ ,” he added, hoping for even the meekest of smiles. Arthur took a deep breath and returned his attention to his computer screen. Eames turned to leave.

The job went over without a hitch, thankfully. The team met that evening in an utterly non-descript, rented conference room (too risky to go back to the warehouse, just in case anyone on the mark’s side was tracking them). Eames grinned as he waited for the other members to arrive, jittery with excitement at their success. All they needed to do was deliver to their client, Lin, and get paid. Then they could go _home_. His yearning for his own bed seemed deep-rooted, like it emanated from his bones, and he was getting giddy thinking about arriving back in Mombasa. He’d take a taxi partway home, and then walk the rest of the way while relishing in the warm, fresh wind and the freedom of not having to wear three layers of winter coats. Maybe he’d burn the damn things tonight to help him keep warm. He could sleep off his jet lag, and then take a long-needed break, lounging on his favorite stretch of beach and reading during the day and then dressing up at night for the casino. The payoff from this job should certainly afford him some leisure time.

Eventually, the rest of the team, save Arthur, arrived. After a quick review and debrief, Ursula quickly explained that she would meet with their client herself, deliver the extracted information, and then wire them each their share of the money. “So. All of you. Leave, finally,” she finished, flashing them a wide smile and then rising from her chair.

Eames turned to her. “Why isn’t Arthur doing it?”

Ursula paused and looked at Eames a bit quizzically. She shook out her thick, tightly coiled hair and then started winding it into a braid behind her head. “Arthur already left.”

Eames blinked. “What?”

“You didn’t know that?”

“No, we all went our separate ways after the job, just like normal. He didn’t tell me anything.”

“Yeah, he told me a few hours before we went under that he’d need to head home immediately, and he asked me to rendezvous with Lin for him.” Ursula gathered her stuff together and then shrugged on her thick anorak. “He didn’t say why. You know Arthur in that sort of mood; I certainly wasn’t going to engage with him.”

Eames scrunched up his face in concern. “I’ve never known him not to see a job out to the very end.”

 

++

 

Arthur slept through both of his flights, physically and emotionally exhausted from the past few days. He hadn’t really gone to bed the night before the heist, only stopping at his hotel room at around five in the morning just to shower and change his clothes, so as not to arouse suspicion. But as soon as he buckled into his seat on the first plane, he fell into a deep, dreamless slumber that continued, for the most part interrupted, until he landed at his final destination and hailed a cab. Eventually, he got to the house. He walked up the front path and waited at the stoop until his driver left.

Arthur jammed his old key into the lock. It stuck a little as he tried to turn it. _He should really bring her some WD40; he’ll ask her if she has any when he gets inside – or not,_ he thought, suddenly heavy and morose _._ It felt amazing how quickly he seemed to forget, and how stupid and naïve and miserable he felt every time the realization came back to him.

The lock finally yielded and he opened the heavy oak door, shutting it behind him and dropping his bags by his feet. Her house was cold, dark, and empty. He could only barely make out the outlines of the old photographs and mementos that framed the hallway walls, unilluminated in her absence. He called out her name, faintly, in a strange hope that maybe she’d answer, like she always had when his visits were once so frequent that he didn’t even call before showing up and letting himself in, but, this time, everything was silent and still. It felt so wrong to be here. The home was hollow, and she was gone.

Arthur sunk, his back sliding down the door, until he sat crouched on the floor. He took a big, gasping gulp of air and began to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (slight personal interlude) I recently lost someone close to me while I was away from my family. Since it's difficult to write about my feelings but easy to distract myself with fandom, I've decided to try a middle ground in writing a story in which Arthur goes through a difficult loss, but Eames comes to help him. As silly as it is, this is one of my coping mechanisms!
> 
> In conclusion, I would love a comforting Eames of my very own if someone could arrange that, but if not, I would accept comments/any constructive criticism. :-)
> 
> Also, this is my very first Inception fanfiction! Very excited to finally dive into my favorite fandom and contribute something.


	2. Chapter 2

“Eames, how did you even get this number?”

“Look, Dom, don’t hang up, okay? I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m calling about Arthur, not myself.”

Cobb stopped his grumbling for a second, clearly uneasy. “What about Arthur?”

“Well, I,” Eames suddenly felt silly for a second. “I don’t know where he’s gone. I mean, he left before our job ended, and I don’t know why, and maybe something’s wrong, so I wanted to know if you knew. Because, you know, I think he tells you things. Sometimes. I mean, he has to be telling someone, right? And he has chosen to trust you.”

Ugh, he felt like a babbling idiot. Cobb always made him a little nervous when it came to Arthur. He always looked at Eames like he wasn’t worthy, as if he were some sleazy lech trying to whisk his point man away into a life of crime. As if they didn’t _already_ lead lives of crime. What were a few lewd glances amongst thieves?

“Look, Cobb, you don’t have to tell me where he is or what he’s doing, alright? Just let me know if he’s okay.”

“If I tell you, this stays between the two of us.”

“I would never share our precious Arthur, you know that.”

“ _Eames,_ ” Dom warned, his tone strict. Eames wondered momentarily if that was the same tone he used on his five-year-old before remembering that he wasn’t supposed to be ruffling Dom’s uptight feathers.

“Sorry, sorry, force of habit. Yes, I promise. Just between you and me.”

“Arthur’s had a death in the family, someone pretty close to him. He’s gone back home to deal with everything. His family usually leaves admin stuff to him. It’s an efficient move, when you think about it.”

“But an insensitive one as well, possibly,” Eames mumbled into the receiver.

“Arthur can handle it, Eames. So that’s where he is. Not on some dangerous job. He’ll just be tucked away in suburban Bethesda for a little while.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Dom said curtly, leaving an odd moment of silence. Eames was shocked that he didn’t hang up on him immediately. He hadn’t reached Cobb’s breaking point, then, but Eames was fairly confident he could push that button.

“So, on to discussing reunion plans for the Fischer team,” Eames said, launching into his most playful, mocking tone. “A multi-tiered cake is a must, for obvious reasons, although we could do a seven layer dip – it’s a bit excessive but I do dream big – and then I was thinking, for entertainment, we could do limbo dancing! Now, I’ve been thinking about your suggestion, and while I do like to live on the wild side, is it really prudent to invite Robert? I know that – ”

Eames smirked when the line went dead. He looked down on the notepad he kept near his phone. The only thing he’d written down was “Bethesda.”

He couldn’t say this was exactly what he’d been expecting. He figured that, when Arthur disappeared, it would be to do something terrifying and clandestine, like coordinate an assassination or smuggle large quantities of money over international borders or – okay, so Eames didn’t really know what Arthur did when he wasn’t busy with dreamshare. But the issue was that he’d been so drawn into his dangerous fantasies that he hadn’t imagined Arthur would be dealing with something so utterly without solution. Eames couldn’t swoop in and solve this with bribes or impressive displays of strength. This was a ubiquitous human experience, but there wasn’t a quick fix for it.

Honestly, Eames didn’t really know what it felt like to lose someone. He was fairly lucky, that way. Not much extended family, and those that had passed had done so when Eames was a toddler. He couldn’t really even remember them, let alone miss them. But he could remember the absent look in Arthur’s eyes and he felt sick at the thought of it.

If it was anything like dealing with other kinds of absences – romantic break-ups, or losing friends – Eames couldn’t really imagine going through the whole ordeal alone. Nevermind that Arthur hadn’t spoken to the team about it. Cobb had made it sound like he was by himself even now that he’d gone home.

_Well, fuck that,_ Eames thought. Arthur shouldn’t be alone right now. Arthur’s tough exterior didn’t mean he was incapable of feeling pain, unfortunately, which could only be amplified by his isolation, and Eames couldn’t just sit still without doing something about that.

Bethesda? That was a start. Eames packed his bag, reluctantly including his coats, and began looking for flights.

 

++

 

Arthur awoke at around five in the morning. It was still dark outside, and he shivered a little under the blankets he’d piled on himself. He must have forgotten to turn the heating on when he got back to – to wherever he was.

He blinked a few times and looked around the living room in confusion before feeling his heart fall to the ground. It was the worst, the way he felt in the morning when he woke up before he remembered. He always experienced this initial, fleeting moment of happiness, when the naïve little voice in his head went on autopilot and started chirping about everything he could do today, and that it was great to be awake and alive. And, like every other morning, he would then try and remember exactly _why_ today would be so great and what he was actually looking forward to and then he would remember that there was nothing. Everything was just wrong.

There was no job anymore, though. No reason to force himself out of bed or to get dressed or to assuage his rumbling stomach. He rolled over and went back to sleep.

He woke again around eight. Blink. Yawn. Remember. Close eyes. Sleep. Repeat.

Ten passed by, as did noon. Arthur faintly recalled thinking his behavior was ridiculous – or, rather, thinking that he _should_ think that his behavior was ridiculous – before falling back into another dreamless slumber, this time until around three in the afternoon.

At three, he lay awake and just stared up at the ceiling. There were a few blemishes where the paint had flaked off that he fixated on for a while, but, for the most part, he just looked up and focused on the nothingness of it. His mind felt blank for a little while – he couldn’t really tell time in this state, but it felt like a while, at least – until his brain could do nothing but take in his surroundings. Everything brought hot new rushes of tears up to his eyes.

He had looked forward to being back in this house soon, under different circumstances. Every little factor in his life for the past two years, both his decisions and the whims of chance, had meant that he hadn’t made it back to see any family in quite a while. He had never even told Talia about his work in dreamshare. He’d wanted to be sure that it would stick around before he excited her with stories and theory about it, but only a few months after he had fully committed himself, he was suddenly on the run with Dom. Going home became an afterthought, something he would finally get to do once everything calmed down. He had exchanged emails with her the whole time, but he’d always been vague about the reasons for his absence.

And then, once everything had finally calmed down, he’d taken a few more jobs – not only did he need to make a statement to the dreamshare community that inception hadn’t been his grand finale, but he also needed to find new extractors he could trust. Preferably some without fucked-up subconsciouses, but competence alone was so hard to come by that Arthur knew he could only afford to be so picky, lest he find himself unemployed.

A few more months had come and gone, and before he could even think of visiting, everything had happened while he was away. Now it was too late.

Everything he was thinking sounded so overly dramatic. It was weird, all this certainty and past tense. Arthur had never known this kind of finality before.

He had always wanted to tell her all about his work, though. He knew she would have loved it, from the crazy surreal nature of PASIV technology to the puzzle of cracking each mark, always a unique challenge. She was a problem solver at heart, after all, methodical just like he was. She’d spent the latter part of her career as a professional consultant, going from business to business, researching their entire operation, and then changing it as she saw fit, always finding ways to improve their standing.

It was silly, probably, but he had just really been looking forward to telling someone all about his work. He knew she would have appreciated everything about it, really appreciated it and listened to him, not nodding blankly but rather actually engaging with him. Maybe she would have even had some ideas of her own.

He tossed and turned around until he was resting on his side, face pushed into the sofa cushions. He thought about all the mundane little things they used to do together that they would never do again while tears rolled down his face in an unending stream.

Later in the evening, he sat up. He didn’t do much of anything once he became upright, but it was a change, at least. He let his mind become empty again. Eventually, he turned on the television and let the bright images flash before him for a little while before going back to bed.

He slept for a long time again. When he got up the next afternoon, he started to feel a little dizzy, so he stood in the kitchen in the dark and ate a few spoonfuls of peanut butter. That should tide him over for a little while.

Then he paced around the house, wandering between the rooms. He just didn’t have the strength right now to go through her things. He pulled a pile of books together, thinking he could waste away the next few days reading them.

The stories didn’t bring the relief he had hoped they would, though. He opened each one, read a few paragraphs, and then put it down without a care in the world. His mind couldn’t focus. He didn’t even have the power of distraction to help him anymore. He could feel himself thinking about Talia again but his head hurt from crying so much and he just wanted to disappear from his own mind. The pressure of having to deal with his thoughts all the time was too much. He just couldn’t do it, he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t do it; all he could do was wait for sleep.

He did the same thing the next day, almost – with the exception that he tried both reading and a great big book of sudoku puzzles as distraction. Neither worked. He’d never started a puzzle and then just put it down half-completed before, but he sure did now, it seemed.

Then, in the late afternoon, he was sitting on the floor, his back propped up against the hallway wall and his mind almost blank, when he heard a knock at the front door.

He felt a little nauseous when he realized that the knock wasn’t for him. It was for Talia, and whoever was on the other side would be in for a horrible surprise. Arthur would have to explain it to them; he was going to have to hold it together to deliver the news and then comfort someone who was just receiving it for the first time; how the fuck was he going to do this?

He felt sick with fear as he got up, walked over to the door, and turned the knob.

Eames.

It was Eames. Thank goodness, it was Eames, not someone who’d need to hear him explain everything in his draining professional way. He was just a familiar, comforting voice. _When did Eames become comfort,_ he wondered, until his mind refocused a little on the man standing in front of him.

Eames.

It was Eames.

What was Eames doing here?

 

++

 

Eames looked at Arthur and his heart broke a little. He had never seen Arthur like this before.

This Arthur would be unrecognizable to the Arthur he’d seen at work for the past few months. His hair, usually clean and gelled and flawless, was a dirty mess, tangled and sticking out in all directions. He was dressed in ratty old pajama bottoms and a faded t-shirt. His face was pale. Eames stepped a little closer. Arthur’s eyes were swollen. His cheeks were tear-stained.

His expression, when he looked at Eames, was oddly unguarded. His usual dangerous intensity and attentiveness was gone, replaced seemingly by nothing. He didn’t look menacing. He looked small.

“What are you doing here, Eames?” Arthur seemed to wonder aloud, his voice meek.

Eames had always pictured showing up on Arthur’s doorstep differently. He’d practiced lines and innuendos for such a moment. But even teasing wouldn’t be appropriate now. Arthur seemed so fragile that Eames hesitated for a moment before deciding he should just be direct.

“I could tell something was wrong. It seemed serious. You weren’t you,” Eames swallowed, his tone heavy with concern. “Cobb told me you were here, and I came, because I didn’t want you to be here alone.”

Arthur reached back and pulled the door closed behind Eames. Eames put an arm around him, feeling Arthur’s nervous weight against his chest. “Arthur?”

Arthur opened and closed his mouth a few times but didn’t respond. Suddenly, Eames could feel him start to shake, and he clutched him a little closer. Then Arthur crumpled to the ground, falling a little against the door, and Eames followed him. They sat crouched on the floor there together, and Eames held him until he calmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I promise Arthur will start to work through things next chapter, and things will start to look up, bit by bit, for him soon.


End file.
